Hold Off the Earth Awhile
by happycabbage75
Summary: Sam and Dean tangle with a tattoo artist whose work is a deadly gift that keeps on giving.
1. Chapter 1

**Hold Off the Earth Awhile**

Summary: Post WIAWSNB. Sam and Dean tangle with an artist whose work is a deadly gift that keeps on giving.

_This story is a desperate attempt to break myself out of a post-finale funk of monumental proportions. Just haven't been able to write for the boys, but I'm working on it…_

Chapter One

* * *

"You sure you're up for this?" Sam looked at Dean sitting across the booth from him, staring out the diner window. "Dean?" he said when his brother didn't answer, just kept staring across the street.

Dean finally turned to look at him. "I'm fine." Sam looked down at his brother's half-eaten food. Dean followed his gaze and his mouth quirked up in chagrin, knowing he'd been caught. "Ate too much at lunch."

That was a lie too, but Sam chose not to call him on it. Dean was already staring out the window again, lost in thought as he had been far too often the past few days. He was physically fine, at least as far as Sam could tell. The effects of his time with the djinn seemed to have worn off soon enough, but Dean was still too quiet. He wasn't supposed to be the quiet one and it was kind of freaking Sam out. Dean normally ignored problems by excessively talking about anything other than what was bothering him. This silent, pensive thing was… worrying.

Finally, Dean drew in a heavy breath as if that alone was work. "You ready?"

"Yeah." Sam scooted out of the booth and pulled on his suit coat that he'd hung over the back. Dean did the same, straightening his tie. He looked up at Sam and froze for just a second, staring at him, then shook his head as if annoyed with himself.

Sam had seen a lot of that over the past couple of days. "What?"

Dean shook his head again. "Nothin'. You in a suit."

Sam frowned, glancing down to make sure he hadn't dropped anything on his shirt or tie. "Somethin' wrong with it?"

"Nope. Just you in your natural element." Dean pulled his wallet out and threw some cash on the table before heading for the door, leaving Sam to follow in his wake or be left behind.

They stopped outside the diner waiting on the traffic to clear so that they could cross. Sam looked at the shop opposite them, the Skull and Crossbones Tattoo Parlor. The business appeared to be well-kept, but also had the look of a shop that had been there for years and years. A neon sign hung in the window, a large blue-white version of the business' namesake. The rest was all open glass, Sam supposed so that anyone walking past could get a glimpse of the tattoo artists at work.

In the past month, five bodies had been found in the local cemetery dead from exposure, each person lying on top of a deceased relative's grave. The police were beyond confused, but bodies showing up dumped on top of specific plots just might have a little more to it than the cops were prepared to deal with. People might visit graves, but they didn't stay there long enough to die of exposure. Especially when witnesses had seen certain victims only hours before.

An afternoon of nosing around and talking to the families had given them only one lead. Each body had a tattoo from this particular shop. Suddenly, the skull and crossbones hanging in the window didn't look so innocent.

A break finally opened in the traffic and Sam followed Dean as he jogged across the street. Sam held the door, letting Dean in first.

The shop contained everything one would expect to see from a tattoo parlor, and Sam noted that in addition to the portion of the business visible from the street, there were a couple of cubicles toward the back that he guessed were for people wanting tattoos that weren't meant to be on permanent display.

"Can I help you?"

They both turned to see a man sitting behind a high desk, more like a draftsman's table than anything else. He was probably in his 50s, long gray hair held back in a pony-tail. He was wearing a dark t-shirt and jeans, but Sam only noticed the rest of the details after first seeing the tattoos.

They looked like a cross between some sort of tribal design and grassy vines, sprouting wherever his skin was visible. His arms were covered, but the tattoos also showed at the neck of his t-shirt and had been designed to look as if they had grown up his neck, stopping at his jaw-line though a few leaves peeked out, threatening to grow higher. In the back the tattoos crawled all the way up into his hair. It looked like a funky jungle plant was about to take over his face. The effect was cool and seriously creepy all at the same time.

Sam glanced toward Dean and saw that he was bristling with tension, although Sam doubted anyone would notice but him. Dean unconsciously raised a hand, rubbing his fingers across the spot where the djinn's needle had been in his neck.

Sam shifted closer, his shoulder just brushing Dean's in a silent show of support, a tacit reminder that this was an old hippie, not a djinn, and that no matter who it was, Dean wasn't going anywhere this time, mentally or otherwise.

Dean cleared his throat. "Nice tats."

The man just nodded and Sam supposed he was used to people staring at his tattoos. "You gentlemen interested in something similar?"

"No, sir," Sam said, drawing up to his full height and putting on his official voice. "We're from the Health Department. We were asked to open an investigation in reference to several recent deaths, all the persons involved having tattoos from your establishment, two less than a week old."

The man's face immediately clouded. He stood up and came around the desk, all pretense of cheerfulness gone. "Look, I've told you guys before and I told the police. The deaths have nothing to do with me. _My_ work was clean. What happens after people leave is _their_ business."

"But every person had a tattoo from your shop, so we have to-"

"I run a clean place," the man cut Sam off. "I make sure everything is done the safest way I can! You Health Department people are always hounding me!"

"Hounding you?" Dean asked, one eyebrow raised.

"Every single person has to sign a waiver." He poked a finger in their direction belligerently. "Every one of them. You guys have my methods on record and even Okayed the process. It's not like there's hardly even anything in the ink. I practically wave the stuff near the ink and say it's in there. It's mostly just a show. But you Health Department people are always checking up on me and now the police. That's just great!" He threw up his hands furiously.

"Whoa, whoa, whoa. Back up a second. What are you talking about?" Dean said and Sam had to agree. They'd only found the tattoo link that afternoon and hadn't had a chance to look into the shop or its owner.

The man stopped and just looked at them for a second. "You're here about the memorial tattoos, so don't even try to pretend this is just a routine inspection."

"Memorial tattoos?" Sam asked.

"Look, the dirt or the ashes are handled very carefully. After I treat everything, I still put less than a speck of it in the ink. It'd mess up the equipment if I put in any more than that. It's just for people's piece of mind. It helps them heal or remember or whatever it is they need. It helps them keep a piece of the person close. I'm just performing a community service. You guys know I've been doing it for fifteen years and this is the first time there's been a problem."

Sam and Dean just stood for a moment, staring blankly, in complete disbelief.

"You…" Dean coughed uncertainly. "You put… _ashes_… in the ink."

"Yeah," the man said, looking at them oddly. "Or some of them bring a little dirt from the grave if they don't have ashes. It's my specialty. People come from all over the country."

"And each of the victims had memorial tattoos?" Sam asked.

"Yeah," the man replied, real suspicion in his tone now. "But you guys should know all of that already. Can I see some ID?"

Dean pulled out a flip wallet and flashed one of their all-purpose Health Department IDs. It wasn't like people knew what one of them should look like anyway. The man reached out to take it and Sam saw that his tattoos were designed in the same way on his hands as on his neck. Leaves reached out past his wrists as if the vines were still growing and would eventually encompass his hands.

Dean took a small step back out of the man's reach, snapping the wallet closed and putting the ID back in his pocket. Sam glanced at him worriedly. Dean had meant for the action to look natural, but his body language was speaking volumes. He didn't want the man's tattooed hands anywhere near him, not that Sam could blame him.

"We may have a few more questions. We'll be in touch, sir," Sam said, moving toward the door. Dean did the same, although Sam noted that he was backing toward the door, not willing to turn his back on the tattoo artist.

"Thank you for your time," Dean offered, only a hint of strain audible in his tone.

The store owner rolled his eyes. "Whatever. Just leave me alone. Tell that to the cops, too."

Sam once again held the door for Dean as they exited. The door swung closed and Dean let out a slow breath. He stood on the sidewalk for several seconds, gathering himself. Finally, he gave Sam a sidelong glance, grimacing at the expression he saw there. Sam knew he looked worried and didn't bother hiding it. He wanted Dean to know that he wasn't the Sam from his dream. What was going on with Dean _was_ important to him. He _was_ glad they got along.

The longer he was with Dean, the more he wondered how they had ever managed to function properly while he was away at school. Sometimes, Sam marveled that Jess had ever put up with him. Dean had always been able to jostle him out of his darker moods. Jess had done her best, but Dean hadn't been there for him then, and that fact had often been the cause of those darker moods in the first place. For Dean, it might have been worse. Sam hadn't been there when their Dad was barking orders to offer a secret eye roll behind their father's back. He hadn't been there to share a joke or two. It would have been orders, hunting, killing, with no real reprieve. Sam had had Jess. Their dad wasn't exactly what you'd call a real support system.

Not that Sam was much better sometimes. He looked at Dean's still too-pale features and wished he could kill the djinn all over again. Dean had already been on shaky ground. Dad's death, Meg beating him down, physically and mentally, and in the middle of all that, Sam had shaken his brother badly by leaving after he'd learned their dad's final orders.

Dean had begged him for some time. Sam should have known it then. Dean never begged. And that right after he'd been willing to just sit down and die along with Sam after he'd been infected. _I'm tired, Sam. I'm tired of this job, this life, this weight on my shoulders, man. I'm tired of it_. He should have realized then that Dean was running on empty, but Sam had been so angry. Angry and terrified. Dad. Dean following his orders. Dean _killing_ him. For their Dad to give that kind of order, the odds that Sam would turn evil must be impressive. Sam might rationalize it as a need for finding answers without Dean hovering, but the result had been the same, or at least Dean would have seen it that way. Sam had cut and run. All over again. Not his best move, in retrospect.

After all of that, the djinn had gone and informed Dean that he and Sam never would have gotten along if not for hunting. Which was complete crap. Who knew what would have become of them with two well-adjusted parents and no monsters chasing them. It had been Dean's own fears that had created that part of the dream, Dean's fears that Sam was only his partner because he couldn't figure out how to get out of it.

"You gonna stand there thinking some more," Dean asked casually, "or do you wanna go figure how to fix our little Tattoos of Doom problem?"

Sam lips twitched in an effort not to smile. Instead, he shook his head seriously. "Tattoos of Doom. I was gonna go with Death Tats, but it doesn't have quite the same ring."

Dean nodded, his expression similarly serious. "I was trying to put the right impending-disaster spin on it. These things aren't as easy as they look."

"It's good," Sam agreed. "Ominous."

Dean cocked his head to one side. "I always kinda liked the word 'foreboding'. Has a cool we're-all-gonna-die sound to it."

Sam couldn't hold it back any longer and grinned. Dean gave him an answering grin and together they began walking toward the Impala. Yeah, they were screwed up, Sam thought, but they complimented each other well in their dysfunction.

They crossed the street again, and Dean's smile faded, faster than Sam would have liked. His brother glanced back toward the tattoo parlor, eyeing it almost warily. Sam purposely bumped him, making it look like an accident, and Dean's eyes faced forward again.

"Come on," Sam urged, opening the passenger side door and sliding in. "I'm thinking somebody was hoping for a nice restful death and didn't appreciate their remains being embedded in their relative."

Dean started the car, glancing toward Sam, something once again wary in his gaze. "Nobody wants to be permanently stuck with someone when it wasn't meant to be."

Sam gritted his teeth. He didn't know what he'd said to Dean in that dream to cause his brother this much uncertainty, but right now, Sam really wished he could kick his own ass.

* * *

_More soon…_


	2. Chapter 2

**Hold Off the Earth Awhile**

Summary: Post WIAWSNB. Sam and Dean tangle with an artist whose work is a deadly gift that keeps on giving.

_For those not reading the new Meyer book…_

Chapter Two

* * *

Sam opened the motel room door and walked in. It was well into the afternoon , but Dean was still in bed. He didn't know if his brother was asleep or not, but Sam entered quietly just the same.

Normally, Dean would have awakened no matter how quietly Sam came into the room, but right now things weren't normal. The quiet, pensive Dean that Sam had been living with since the djinn happened was a different brother and Sam was walking on eggshells. Loud Dean, angry Dean, drunk Dean, reckless Dean, any other normal incarnation of his brother, Sam could deal with, had spent his life dealing with. But this silence… it was wearing on him. It wasn't like the silence after their dad's death either. That silence had been bristling with tension. It had been an angry, seething silence. This… Losing their mom all over again was different for him.

Sam sat down at the little table and opened the laptop. He could work a little and then he would force Dean to go to dinner with him. Sam glanced toward his brother's unmoving form. Dean wasn't asleep. He could tell now. The depression, the sadness, the cloud surrounding him was almost visible.

Sam's working theory was that the djinn had basically kept Dean high to induce the dream. To make the dream that vivid and concrete feeling, it must have been a massive buzz. Dean was crashing now, supernaturally speaking, a fierce depression replacing the high. Then again, Dean's depression might be a natural reaction to having their mom and a monster-free life ripped away from him again. Whatever the case, when Sam managed to get him out of bed, Dean still moved like he was underwater, exhausted by the effort, and Sam was at a loss as to how to help.

"Dude, quit staring at me," Dean suddenly growled.

"Who says I'm staring?" Sam asked, staring at Dean whose back was still to him.

"One, I've got that creepy feeling of being watched. Two, you're thinking so loud it's giving _me_ a headache."

"You know what time it is?" Sam asked, and could have kicked himself for how accusatory it sounded.

"About two minutes 'til I kick your ass if you don't back it down," Dean said, although he had yet to move a muscle.

Sam snorted. "You'll have to get out of bed to do it."

"Tired, Sammy," Dean said, sounding exhausted despite how long he'd been asleep.

Sam bit his lip, freshly troubled at Dean's failure to play along in their game of words. "Wanna know what I found at the morgue?" he tried.

"I'm guessing dead people."

"Finally got hold of the police reports too."

"Fascinating reading, I'm sure," Dean muttered.

"Tattoo place has a website," Sam continued. "The guy wasn't kidding about memorial tattoos being his specialty. He's been doing them for years."

Dean just grunted.

"The Impala was making a funny noise when I came back from the morgue. Guess I should go take a look at it if you're gonna sleep a little longer." Sam just kept his eyes on his brother. If his threatening to work on the car didn't get Dean moving, it just might be the third sign of the apocalypse.

Dean sighed heavily and shoved the covers back. After several seconds' hesitation, he sat up throwing his legs over the side of the bed. He leaned forward, setting his elbows on his knees, rubbing a hand across his face. Finally, he stood and padded around the bed, dropping into the chair across from Sam at the little table.

"Morgue?"

"Definite EMF," Sam reported, "but not necessarily from the tattoos. Which is weird. More like what you get when someone's attacked by a ghost. Matching readings from each of the bodies as well, like one ghost did all the damage."

"Police reports?" Dean asked.

Sam chose not to comment that after the strenuous trip from the bed to the chair, Dean didn't seem to have the energy to say more than a word or two. He'd been paying attention at least. "Just like the paper said. Over the last month several bodies have turned up, each one on or near a relative's grave. Not all of the tattoos were fresh, but they were all memorial tattoos. The victims all died from exposure, which is impressive since some of them had been seen only hours before the bodies were discovered. One thing…"

Dean looked up slightly, but didn't say anything.

"There was a sixth body that didn't make the papers. It wasn't on a relative's grave. It was left outside the cemetery all together."

"How come?"

"The police don't have a clue, but I have a theory." Sam waited, trying to force Dean to respond before telling him more.

"What?"

"There are actually two separate cemeteries. They just happen to be right next to each other. The body was dumped outside the Jewish part of the graveyard. There were scuff marks pulling the body out."

That got Dean's attention and he pursed his lips in thought. "Nobody with tattoos allowed in a Jewish cemetery. Old school anyway… Tattoos are unclean."

Sam nodded in agreement. "That's my guess, too." Just like Jewish dietary laws of animals that were considered clean and unclean, there were lots of other rules, tattoos being just one. Sam wasn't surprised that Dean knew that rule either. When it came to burials, Winchesters had to be experts on the subject or they could get their asses handed to them by a ghost who knew more than they did.

"So we've got a dead rabbi sucking the life out of tattooed people?" Dean asked, his face twisted, not liking the idea. "Dumped the one guy's body outside his territory?"

Sam grimaced, not liking it either. It just didn't feel right. "Dunno. Maybe."

"I dated this chick once… She tried to talk me into getting matching tattoos," Dean said, seemingly out of the blue.

Since Dean didn't have any tattoos, Sam could only assume he'd refused. "What happened?"

"Told her I didn't believe in them on religious grounds."

Sam laughed. "Cause you look like such a good church-going boy."

Dean grinned, his more normal rakish smile and Sam was happy to see it. "I've got wholesome written all over me, Sammy."

"Or not written, as the case may be."

Dean nodded. Tattoos had never really appealed to either of them. They'd seen them used too often for more than just decorative reasons. Symbols, sigils, anything like that permanently on a person's skin could mean a lot of things in their business, rarely anything good. A tattoo that reminded you of a loved one was one thing. A tattoo that said you _belonged_ to a loved one, be that family or a witch or a demon, was another. Tattoos could carry a lot of weight in the supernatural realm. The djinn had been their most recent reminder. Not to mention that the police had a nasty habit of cataloguing tattoos to identify a person.

"She woulda picked something wussy anyway," Dean continued. "Try explaining cupids or whatever to a bunch of guys at the Roadhouse."

Sam shuddered appropriately. "What happened to the girl?"

Dean shrugged. "Ditched me one night for a dude with 'Budweiser 4ever' on his arm." He drew the four in the air with his finger. "Thought it was kinda tacky myself, but hey…" He shrugged again.

"Whatever makes a person happy, huh?" Sam said.

Dean looked at him, staring, gone somewhere else for just a second. Then he blinked and abruptly sat back in the chair, leaning heavily against the back rest. "Yeah." Dean ran a hand through his sleep-tousled hair. "Sure."

Sam coughed, shifting uncomfortably in his chair. He just couldn't seem to keep his foot out of his mouth. Dean had given up a life that must have felt like paradise on earth compared to what he was living now and he'd done it for the sake of the job, for what was real, for _Sam_.

"So the tattoo guy."

"Right." Sam pulled up the site and flipped the laptop around so Dean could see it. "His name is Bud Mortimer. He's been specializing in memorial tattoos for fifteen years or so. He was a portrait artist before he got into tattooing. He does other things, but portraits are what he does best."

"Anything look fishy about him?" Dean asked, not really concentrating on the screen. "Other than the freaky-ass tattoos that are about to eat his face?"

Sam gave him a half-grin. "Looks clean to me. His process actually takes some work, especially if he's using grave dirt. He's got an autoclave for the tattoo equipment, uses that to sterilize it, but like he said, I don't think he does more than wave the stuff near the tattoo ink anyway. It's basically for effect. People feel better, or whatever, and he makes a ton of money."

Dean sighed. "Except a bunch of people are dead and we don't know why."

"Yeah. And he's been doing this for years and this is the first time anybody's ever turned up dead."

"That we know of."

"Huh?"

"He said people come from all over the country. We don't know if people have died once they got home."

Sam shook his head. "The EMF wasn't centered on the tattoos. I think this is somebody here in town taking people out. It's related to the tattoos, but…" Sam frowned in frustration. "I don't know." He looked across the table to see that Dean was staring down at his hands.

"Can you imagine what Dad would have done if we'd tried something like that with his ashes?"

The thought was so ludicrous that Sam laughed and Dean's lips quirked up slightly on one side. "I'm having a terrible image of my tattoo coming to life to boss me around."

Dean snorted. "That's my job. You don't need a tattoo for that."

For once, Sam wished that his brother _would_ boss him around. "So what do you want to do?" he asked.

"Dad would've already burned down the tattoo place," Dean observed.

Sam just raised an eyebrow. "I was hoping for something a little more subtle."

Dean sighed resignedly and shifted forward again, moving like an old man. "So we figure out what changed a month ago. What do we have?"

Sam sat back, rubbing a hand over his face in frustration. "A whole lot of nothing." He pulled a sheaf of papers out of his bag and spread it out in front of them on the table. "We have victims that have nothing in common, but that they went to the same tattoo place. No one is related, the graves they were visiting don't have anything in common. Some were old graves, some new. Some were elderly people, some younger, one child. Men, women, ages, jobs, families… there's nothing except the tattoos, which are old and new as well."

"So something that happened a month ago set all this off," Dean surmised. "Something that stirred up a ghost that's been dormant, or maybe someone new." He pulled the laptop closer to him and began typing.

"What are you looking for?"

"Obits," Dean answered. "Might be a new resident in the cemetery doesn't like visitors…"

Sam just nodded and remained silent while Dean worked, in truth glad to see some initiative. As was often the case, giving his brother something to do was the best way to help him through whatever was troubling him. Finally, Dean sat back. "Anything?"

Dean shook his head. "A few other deaths. Nothing standing out."

"So now what?"

"Guess we go back to the tattoo place." Dean smiled innocently. "Only this time we're a little less Health Department and a little more kick-ass hunters of every evil thing that stalks the night."

Sam snorted. "And if that doesn't work? We what? Burn it to the ground?"

"Thought you wanted subtle." Dean's smile transformed into a wolfish grin. "We'll just break his fingers so he can never tattoo again."

* * *

The sun was just setting as Dean pulled the Impala to a halt in front of the tattoo shop. He shut the car off and he and Sam both looked up just in time to see the plate glass store front explode outward as the tattoo artist crashed through it. The man fell onto the sidewalk in a limp pile and didn't move again.

* * *

_More soon…_


	3. Chapter 3

**Hold Off the Earth Awhile**

Summary: Post WIAWSNB. Sam and Dean tangle with an artist whose work is a deadly gift that keeps on giving.

_Pardon the delay. The Sunday afternoon nap was impossible to resist yesterday._

Chapter Three

* * *

Dean watched the tattoo artist fly through the window in a shower of glass. For half a second, he seriously considered putting the car in reverse, driving back to the motel and going back to bed. It would be so much simpler than dealing with whatever this was. And honestly… he just didn't have the energy to deal with this now.

Dean blinked and the next thing he knew, Sam was already out of the car and headed toward the shop. Great reaction time, Dean mentally scolded himself. He was just so tired. He was _tired_ of being tired.

Dean sighed and pulled himself out of the car. He walked toward the shop, keeping one hand on the gun tucked at his back, hidden beneath his jacket as he scanned the interior of the business. There wasn't anything to be seen however and he let his gaze drop to Sam who was kneeling in front of the still-stunned businessman. The guy looked like he'd had the wind knocked out of him and he had little nicks and cuts all over his exposed skin.

"You ok?" Sam asked.

The man took a second to think about it and finally nodded. His tattoos were just as striking as they had been before and Dean felt a shiver start at the base of his spine and work its way up. The cuts from the glass made it look like the vines themselves were oozing blood.

Sam stood and reached out to help the man off the ground. As his tattooed hand met Sam's, Dean clenched his teeth tightly to keep from snapping at Sam to get away from him. "What happened?" Dean asked instead.

Bud Mortimer shook his head, glass tinkling as it fell from his hair to the pavement. He glanced toward the interior of the business and suddenly took a step back. Sam and Dean both turned to look as well, but there was nothing to see.

"What?"

"It's… it's not possible."

"Try us," Sam said, putting on his sincere, understanding tone.

"I need to… to board up the shop." Mr. Mortimer took a deep breath and walked toward the door as if he were walking into battle, heavy determined steps.

Sam stopped him with a hand on his arm and once again Dean keep himself from shouting a warning not to touch the tattooed man's skin. "What knocked you through the window?"

Mr. Mortimer shook Sam's hand off and then he laughed, though it sounded near hysteria. "I thought we were finally rid of him." He laughed again, hysteria blending into tears. "I was so happy when he finally kicked off, I wanted to dance on his grave. As a matter of fact, I did… sort of."

The man shook his head and walked into his shop, heading straight for the back. Frustrated, Sam looked at Dean, who thought he'd like nothing better than to walk across the street and sit down at the diner for a while. Instead, he walked to the trunk of the car and found Marigold.

His favorite sawed-off shotgun was a soothing weight in his hand and he simply stood at the trunk for a few extra seconds enjoying the reassuring feel of her in one hand, the trunk lid pressed against the other, the Impala's bumper pressed against his knees.

He could still see the empty trunk from his djinn-induced dream. Although the thought of being a civilian had appealed to him, even then he'd felt a twinge to think that Marigold wasn't there. She'd been with him through thick and thin for too many years and, civilian or not, he'd wondered how his wish could have left her behind. He liked to think that she'd been stashed away somewhere in his home with Carmen, ready and waiting in case of a burglary, but maybe Marigold had found a happy home as well, being some other hunter's wingman. Wing-shotgun… whatever.

"Dean?"

He looked up to see that Sam was beside him and Dean guessed he must have been standing there too long. Sam was looking worried again and Dean mentally cursed himself for spacing out. "Yeah. I'm coming. Just figured we might need some firepower if Casper's gonna be throwing people through windows before we can get Bud out of here."

Sam nodded and shut the trunk as Dean stashed Marigold inside his jacket to hide her from anyone watching the show. They hurried back to the shop and walked inside just in time to see Mr. Mortimer pulling sheets of plywood from a back storeroom along with a hammer and a box of nails.

"Hey, Bud," Dean said curiously. "You seem pretty prepared there."

Sam moved to help the man and Dean knew it was because they needed to get the guy out of here as quickly as possible. In the meantime, Dean was on sentry duty.

"This isn't the first time he's broken out that window," Bud answered. He laughed again, that semi-hysterical laugh that meant he was close to a real freak-out.

"Who's _he_?"

"He is… _was_ the bane of my existence. He's completely nuts. He's broken out this window half a dozen times. He follows me around, chases off my customers, or at least scares the crap out of them."

"And he's… dead," Dean observed.

"Well… yeah. 'Bout a month ago." Bud just looked at Dean for a moment, his eyes wide and frightened. He then picked up the plywood he was holding and hurried outside to nail it in place. Sam looked at Dean, shrugged, then followed Bud outside.

Denial… Sometimes Dean sincerely wished he could manage it. The truth just seemed to have a way of smacking him in the face no matter what he did. Even in his dreams of paradise, the truth followed him, hounding him until he snapped back to ugly reality.

Dean followed the others outside and watched as Bud and Sam quickly began boarding up the shop. Dean noticed there were people watching from the diner across the street, but they didn't seem to be doing more than stare so he chose not to worry about it.

"This guy have a name?" he asked.

"Jacob something," Bud replied around the nail he was holding with his lips.

"You don't know his name?"

"It's not like I was friends with the guy!" Bud said angrily. "He was a menace and crazy as a bedbug!"

"Crazy how?" Dean asked.

"Full on schizo. Paranoia, hallucinations, hears voices… He even has crazy-guy hair."

"Sounds like someone I know." Dean smiled, looking at his brother, who turned briefly to glare at him.

"He's convinced that tattoos are the mark of the devil," Bud continued. "He actually attacked a couple of people who had tattoos. The cops put him in the mental hospital every so often. They'd keep him long enough to put him back on his meds and then cut him loose. He's goes off the meds and goes right back to being nutty as a fruitcake, threatening anyone with a tattoo who comes near him."

"He thinks the devil's after him?" Dean asked. Suddenly his quip about Sam didn't seem quite as funny.

"Yeah. Thinks the devil has 'marked' his people. He went after this lady with a Smurf tattoo of all things. She was trying to give him some money or something and he went psycho."

"Smurf tattoo…" Dean snorted. "Dated… but not exactly what I'd call evil."

"He breaks out my window every once in a while when he decides I'm the leader of the local Satan worshippers. I had to get a Taser to keep him away while I walked to my car. My tats kinda freak him out."

"They kinda freak _me_ out," Dean admitted. "And I'm sane." He coughed. "Mostly."

"So what happened to him?" Sam asked as he and Bud finished nailing the first piece of plywood in place.

"I hadn't seen him in a few days and the cops found him dead in the alley behind here."

"Let me guess," Dean said tiredly. "Died from exposure."

"No shelter back there. Not even a box. Hadn't been eating or drinking properly, not that he ever did. Too crazy," Bud answered. "Nothing really bad wrong with him physically. He just sort of sat down and died."

"Except he just tossed you through your front window."

Bud's eyes flew wide, disbelief and fear evident in his expression. "He… it's not possible. He's _dead_. I used… I…"

Dean's eyes narrowed and his grip instinctively tightened on Marigold, still held hidden beneath his jacket. "What did you do, Bud?"

"I didn't do anything!" the man said, his voice once again heading toward hysteria. "He's _dead_."

"You said 'used'. What did you use?" Sam stepped closer to Dean and turning so that they could both face him.

"Wait…" Dean said, something tickling at the back of his mind. "You said you _sorta_ danced on his grave. What does that mean?"

"The perfect revenge," Bud nearly snarled. "I used him for the tattoos."

Dean's jaw nearly dropped open. "Come again?"

"I always keep some dirt on hand. I don't just do memorial tattoos. The tough guys and the Goth types think it's cool to tell people they've got one of my special tattoos. I put a little grave dirt in them. Makes them feel like they're real badasses."

"And," Dean prompted, suddenly beyond exhausted. He had no doubt what the guy was going to say and all it did was make him think he _really_ should have gone back to bed and left this jerk to whatever the ghost wanted to do with him.

"After the city buried him, I went and found his grave and used some of the dirt for the tattoos." The man pointed at them belligerently. "It served him right. He spent years bothering everyone around here. Just because he had some crazy idea about us being marked by the devil, he did his best to _ruin_ my business!"

"He was sick," Sam said angrily. "He didn't know any better!"

"He was a menace and he deserved what he got!" the tattoo artist shot back.

"He spent his life terrified thinking the devil was after him!" Sam roared. "Can you imagine what that's like?"

Dean blinked, forcing himself out of his exhausted haze. He took a good look at his brother, realization dawning. "Sam," he said, putting a hand on his arm.

"And what do you do?" Sam snapped, ripping his arm out of Dean's grasp, all of his fury and attention aimed at Bud. "You turn him into exactly what he was afraid of!"

"It's just DIRT!" Bud shouted back.

"You _stupid_ sonuva-"

"Sam!" Dean barked, finally getting his brother's attention. "We'll take care of it, ok?" He pitched his voice low, putting all the sincerity into it that he could muster. "You hear me? We'll take care of it. _I_ will take care of it." And they both knew that Dean wasn't just promising to put the spirit to rest. He was promising Sam, as he had promised over and over again, that he was not going to allow his brother to be forced into any of the plans Yellow-Eyes had set in motion.

Dean watched as Sam visibly calmed himself, and realized they were both breathing hard. "It's ok," he said again, reassuring himself as much as Sam. "Now don't kill Bud. He's stupider than stupid and a world-class turd, but you can't kill him, all right?"

Sam nodded, closing his eyes as he reined his temper in. "Right. Forgot. Stupidity is not a capital offense."

"Normally, you're the one having to remind me," Dean huffed.

"You got all brooding and I'm goin' off half-cocked." Sam smiled weakly. "The world's upside down, man."

"You're a little touchy on the Big 'D' subject," Dean offered. "I get it."

"Are you two jerks gonna hug," Bud snapped, "or will somebody help me put up this other piece of plywood?"

Sam and Dean both turned to glare at the man. "I could be talked into changing my mind about killing him," Dean said.

Sam nodded, but stepped forward again to grab the other end of the large piece of plywood Bud was holding. They held it up in place and Bud reached into his pocket for more nails.

"_You're marked_."

All three of the men looked around for the source of the voice, but there was nothing to be seen. No longer caring that they had an audience at the diner across the street, Dean pulled Marigold from beneath his jacket and brought her up, choosing to aim toward the tattoo parlor, since it seemed to be the source of their problems.

The lights in the shops around them flickered and then went out, the neon skull and crossbones sign dying last. Abruptly the plywood that Bud and Sam were still holding was pushed from inside the store. They dropped the board and stumbled backward. Dean caught Sam and kept him from falling, but let Bud tumble to the sidewalk.

All three of the men looked up again, to see a man standing in the now open window of the tattoo parlor. He flickered like a silent movie, gray, dead-faced. His eyes were wide, crazed and rolling. A mass of dirty, longish hair stood out from his head. It was almost as if he'd stuck his finger in a socket and it was standing on end, and Dean realized what Bud meant by crazy-guy hair.

"_You're marked_," the ghost repeated. Only he wasn't looking at Bud in all of his creepy, tattooed glory. He was looking at Sam. "_You've been marked by the devil_."

"No," Sam wheezed, sounding like he'd been sucker punched.

"_You have to be stopped_."

The ghost reached out and grabbed Sam by his shirtfront, yanking him inside the shop through the open window.

* * *

_More soon…_


	4. Chapter 4

**Hold Off the Earth Awhile**

Summary: Post WIAWSNB. Sam and Dean tangle with an artist whose work is a deadly gift that keeps on giving.

_When last we spoke… Sam had just been grabbed by the ghost…_

Chapter Four

* * *

Dean brought Marigold up, but he didn't have a clear shot. Sam's body blocked the ghost as they vanished into the dark interior of the store. There was no delayed reaction this time. Dean ran for the opening where the shattered window had been and vaulted the low wall. He brought the shotgun up and took aim just in time to see Sam thrown from one side of the shop to the other. He crashed into the side of a wooden table with a padded top, sort of like something from a doctor's office, and slid to the floor in a pile.

Dean fired at the ghost and it dissolved immediately. After another second, the lights flickered back on and he watched in horror as blood began to pool beneath Sam's head.

"Bud, get your ass in here!" Dean bellowed. He hurried to Sam's side and knelt beside him, half-listening for the other man as he entered, glass crunching beneath his feet. "I need a towel, or bandages, whatever you've got handy."

Dean saw that Sam had nicks on his exposed skin and one longer gash on his arm from being dragged through the window where jagged bits of glass were still sticking out from the frame.

"Sammy?" Dean asked, searching for the source of the blood. "Sammy, talk to me."

"D'n?" Sam mumbled. He half opened his eyes, then they fell closed again. He tried to turn on his side and immediately made a horrible noise that was midway between a hiss and a groan.

"Ribs?" Dean asked. Sam made some sort of pained noise and Dean took it as agreement.

Bud appeared at Dean's side and he took the towel from him. Dean spared a second to scan the room again, but the ghost hadn't reappeared. He shoved Marigold into the surprised man's hands, then pressed the towel against Sam's head and used his other hand to try and lever Sam into a sitting position. Sam moaned in half-conscious misery, but Dean knew they couldn't wait.

"Grab his other arm," he ordered Bud.

"What?"

"Your schizophrenic friend is gonna be back before too long, so we need to go!"

"He's not my friend!" Bud snapped.

"Listen, Mr. Concrete-thinker. We don't have time for this. Just grab his arm!"

Between the two of them, they got Sam to his feet. He sagged worryingly between them, but they managed to keep him on his feet, Dean still doing his best to keep the towel pressed to Sam's head. It wasn't exactly easy since his brother was as tall as the freakin' Chrysler Building.

Between the two of them, they walked Sam out to the car. Dean hesitated, torn between his need to drive and his need to look after his brother. He'd already made one concession by letting the guy hold Marigold. Finally, before he could change his mind, he snatched the keys out of his pocket and handed them to Bud. "You drive."

"But-"

"Did you hear an option anywhere in that?" Dean glared at the man furiously and he immediately decided going along was a good idea.

Dean got into the back seat with Sam, still keeping the now bright red towel pressed firmly in place. Head wounds were just nasty, no matter what. Sam groaned and Dean helped him shift so that there wasn't quite so much pressure on his ribs.

"Where to?"

"Motel on the south edge of town. Move it."

* * *

Dean sat down with a sigh, his adrenaline-fueled burst of energy fading now that Sam was washed, bandaged and lying on the bed.

Marked. Sam didn't have anything more than a scar or two, let alone a tattoo, but the ghost had taken one look at him and he'd _known_. Dean had no doubt that Sam was just going to add it to his list of evidence that he was destined for the dark side.

Sometimes Dean wished like anything he'd just kept his freakin' mouth shut that day after the virus thing.

_Wished_. Dean really hated that word.

If he'd just kept his trap shut Sam wouldn't have run off and nearly gotten himself killed when Gordon caught up. He never would have begged Dean to kill him when the time came. Sam hadn't needed to know about their dad's orders. Dean could have shouldered the burden. He _should_ have. Alone. Sam had already known Yellow-Eyes had plans for him. That was enough to worry about before Dean had to go and inform him that he was carrying a bullet with Sam's name on it, courtesy of John Winchester. For all of his brother's carping that Dean never shared, Dean really needed to keep his yap closed sometimes.

Sam was special. He had visions. The Demon had _plans_. And whatever all of that meant, it was apparently written all over him, as supernaturally visible as a tattoo on skin. Sam was _marked_.

_Son. Of. A-_

"Dean?"

"Yeah, Sammy."

"There a reason you look like someone just shot your dog?"

"Never had a dog," Dean replied absently. Maybe he should have. Normal hunters had dogs. Pets were supposed to be soothing. Granted, most of the dogs they ran into in their line of work were of the eat-your-face-off variety.

"Dean," Sam said, frustration creeping into his tone.

"You ok? How's the head?"

"_Dean_."

"I'm fine," he finally said, though even to his own ears it sounded uncertain. He'd been crap at hiding anything since the djinn. His normal barriers weren't holding well, and Sam was watching him like a hawk.

"Yeah? Then how come you look like someone just shot your dog?"

Dean actually felt a grin tugging at his lips this time. Dogged. That was his Sammy. "Never had a dog."

"We really gonna go in circles?"

"Got a brother like a friggin' terrier, but no dog," Dean huffed. "Seriously, how's the head? Gash wasn't too big. Just bled like crazy. Your arm was probably nastier." Sam raised his arm that was bandaged nearly from wrist to elbow, then let it fall back to the bed tiredly.

"Head hurts. Arm hurts."

Dean snorted. "Go figure." He didn't bother to ask about the rest. He knew Sam was already bruising from a nice set of cracked ribs. He'd really just needed to know if Sam's brains were scrambled.

"He said I was marked, Dean." Sam's voice was low, troubled, and he was staring at the ceiling.

Dean rubbed a hand across his face and sat back against the chair. His eyes, of their own accord, traveled to the ceiling, and Dean knew what his brother was seeing. It was an image permanently etched into both their memories, no doubt more profoundly in Sam's. Jess had died simply because she was inconvenient to the master plan.

"He said I was marked. He could _see_ it," Sam whispered.

"Yeah, so?"

That got Sam's attention and his gaze dropped to Dean. "What?"

"This whole family's marked. Always has been. Huge target right on our backs. Big deal."

"The ghost didn't look at you and say you were evil," Sam answered.

"He didn't say you were evil," Dean admonished. "There's a difference between a demon keepin' tabs on you and you workin' for one."

Sam frowned, looking perilously close to a certain six year old that Dean remembered frowning when he didn't get the answers he wanted. "Still said I was _marked_. He said I had to be stopped."

"You do have to be stopped." Dean smirked. "The whining tends to get a little outta hand."

Sam rolled his eyes, but he quit frowning. "Where's Bud?"

Dean's eyebrows shot upward. "Uhh… he's cringing in the corner just where we left him."

"What?" Sam half-sat up and groaned, wrapping an arm around his bruised chest. Dean waited for his brother's head to stop spinning and for him to look up, then pointed. Sam followed the direction and saw the Bud was indeed sitting in the corner as far away from them as he could get and still be in the room. "He ok?"

"Little closer to catatonic than ok." Dean shook his head. "He got a little freaked when I started stitching you up myself."

"How ya doin', Bud?" Sam called, wincing a little, though Dean wasn't sure if it was his ribs or his head. "Bud?"

The tattoo artist finally turned his head, his dazed eyes moving from one of them to the other. "You… you two aren't from the Health Department, are you?"

Dean blinked. And then he laughed. He laughed until he hurt. How long had it been since he'd laughed that hard? He knew the laughter was bordering on nuts, but that was the funniest friggin' thing he'd heard in he didn't know how long.

When he finally trailed off, wiping tears from his eyes, he saw that Sam was looking somewhere between amused and frightened. Dean cleared his throat, embarrassed at his outburst. "No, we're not from the Health Department."

"We deal with problems like Jacob," Sam offered.

Bud went back to just sort of staring at them blankly, so Dean decided to just stick with the facts. "When did this guy die?"

"A m-month ago."

Dean closed his eyes, trying for patience. Bud had gone from bravely fighting the Health Department, to bravely walking back into his shop after being thrown out of it on his butt, to a useless lump sitting in the motel room, too stunned to do much more than drool on himself. Not that he was really drooling. Dean would have pushed him out on the curb if that were the case.

"You really can't remember his name?"

"I told you. Jacob… something."

"Jacob something." Dean clenched his jaw. "A guy harasses you for years and years and you don't even know his name?"

Anger flared in Bud's eyes and he looked more with it. "Mostly I just yelled at him to get away from my shop or threatened to turn my Taser on him if he didn't get away from me. I wasn't really all that interested in talking about the finer points of being marked by the devil!"

"But you went to his grave," Dean observed.

"Yeah. Right after they planted him. It was the only new one in that section."

Dean tried for breathing through his nose so he wouldn't yell. "Can you show me back there?" Dean caught Sam giving him the stink eye for saying _me_ instead of _us_, but Dean ignored it.

"Oh no," Bud said, his voice rising as panic flared.

"It's the only way we can stop this," Dean assured him. "You point out the grave and Jacob will never bother you again."

"You can't stop him. He's followed me for years and years. He died and he's still following me. Once he decides someone's marked he won't leave them alone."

Dean shot a worried glance toward Sam. "What do you mean?"

"I meant exactly what I said. Once he saw someone who was 'marked', he never forgot it. He practically tracked them if he could. One of the people he attacked, he followed them home and broke into their house."

"Terrific." Dean immediately stood and walked to their bags to find the salt.

"Dean, don't bother."

Dean turned to see Sam teetering as he tried to stand up from the bed. "Sam, what are you doing? Lay back down. I'm not stitching you up again if you crack your head on the table."

"I can see it written all over you, man. You're not going to the cemetery alone."

Dean sighed. "I can handle this. He's not after me. I'll go, dig the guy up and, Bob's your uncle, we all get to sleep in late in the morning."

"You're not going alone. It's not safe."

"Just let me take this one. You can barely stand."

"Yeah, my head hurts, but-"

"Dude, your head is about to _fall off_."

"And you're borderline _suicidal_," Sam bit out.

Dean froze, his gaze locked with Sam's. He wasn't suicidal. He _wasn't_. He was just tired. He was _so_ tired. Tired of this life, this job. Tired of pain, of worrying. Tired of losing things, of _trying_ and still _failing_. He just wanted it to be over, or at least for there to be some sort of end in sight.

Giving up, however, meant giving up on Sam. And Sam was marked, which meant quitting wasn't optional. Tired or not, Sam needed him to stay in the game. "I'm _fine_."

"No, you're _not_. I'm not blind," Sam insisted. He shifted closer, turning to block Bud out of their conversation, and lowered his voice almost to a hiss. "You think I've been sitting here scratching my head for months now? Dean, you were in a near freefall after Dad died. You almost made a deal at the crossroads when she brought him up. You were going to just sit down and _die_ when I was infected. And then the djinn…"

Sam trailed off, his accusing eyes falling to stare at something. Dean looked down and realized that he'd unconsciously brought his hand up to rub his chest, the phantom pain of where he'd stabbed himself returning for just a second.

"Dean, since you woke up, you've been-"

"So I'm a head case. What's new?" Dean shrugged, trying desperately to seem casual. He looked up to see Sam glaring at him, though there were all kinds of worry and fear in that angry stare. "If I let you come with us to the cemetery, will you lay off?"

"_Let_ me?" Sam almost snarled, though he winced as his head reminded him how much it didn't like that kind of thing. When he winced, it set his ribs off and he wrapped his arm more tightly around himself.

Dean grinned smugly. "You need help getting to the car, or you think you can handle it?"

"Let's go," Sam snapped. "Bud, get outside."

* * *

Dean kept Marigold firmly in hand as they walked through the cemetery, Bud beside him, pointing the way. Apparently no one had claimed the body and the government had taken care of the burial. The part of the cemetery owned by the city was in the back, away from the plots with easier access for paying patrons.

As they approached the grave, Dean saw exactly what he'd been afraid of. Jacob was standing in the middle of the graves, flickering, watching them as they came closer. Dean raised Marigold to fire, but before he could Jacob disappeared. "We'll pour a ring around the grave to keep him out," Dean said as they hurried forward. He turned toward Sam. "Your ribs are messed up. Give Bud the shovel. We'll put him on grave detail."

Sam nodded and then stopped. He looked up at Dean and panic tightened his expression.

"Sam?" Dean asked, stepping closer to his brother. "Sammy?"

"Dean, I… Something's wrong… I… I don't feel… right."

Sam's eyes abruptly rolled up in his head and he dropped to the ground, landing on his side on top of Jacob's grave.

* * *

_More soon…_


	5. Chapter 5

**Hold Off the Earth Awhile**

Summary: Post WIAWSNB. Sam and Dean tangle with an artist whose work is a deadly gift that keeps on giving.

_Sam had just collapsed on Jacob's grave… Now on we go…_

Chapter Five

* * *

Dean dropped to his knees beside Sam and felt for a pulse. His skin felt… wrong, dry. Dean kept his fingers at Sam's neck long enough to decide that his heart rate was steady, but oddly sluggish.

Dean clenched his teeth to keep from swearing, long and loud. Exposure. Everyone had died in the cemetery from exposure.

People liked to think they couldn't die just from being outside too long, but human bodies were beyond fragile. A little too much sun, or cold, a bit of dehydration, not quite enough food, a person could sit down and just not get back up. It was painfully easy. Of course, the victims hadn't actually been outdoors long enough to cause them any real problems. Jacob had sped up the process.

"What's wrong with him?" Bud demanded, looking about them nervously.

Dean stood again and grabbed Sam's feet, dragging him away from the grave. He pulled him into the open space a few yards away and then hurried toward the bag that Sam had dropped. He rummaged for the salt and then jogged back. He quickly folded Sam's outstretched arms into his body and then looked up at Bud. "Come stand over here by him."

"Huh?" Bud didn't budge. "You… you shot Jacob at the shop, but he keeps coming back. Shouldn't he be dead? More dead? Whatever you call it."

"Dude, I don't have time to explain. Now, get over here," Dean ordered, already pouring a line of salt around Sam. He paused briefly for Bud to walk around him and then continued making a circle around both of them.

"What are you doing?"

Dean sighed. "What did I just say?"

"What are you _doing_?" Bud said, panic and anger mixing in his tone.

"I'm making sure Jacob doesn't kill you two before I can dig him up. Now shut up!" Dean finished the circle, and stood back to make sure there weren't any breaks in the salt. "Civilians," he muttered under his breath. "Don't move outside the circle. You stay inside the circle, you live. You step outside, Jacob kills you. Got it?"

Bud stared it him in disbelief, but he nodded. "Yeah, ok."

Dean moved back toward their supplies and picked up a shovel. "And make sure Sam doesn't move out of it either or _I'll_ kill you."

He heard Bud swallow heavily. "Got it."

"Good." Dean grasped the shovel in his hands and dug into the grave without hesitation. It was a relatively fresh grave, which made for easier going. Digging graves was never easy work, but compared to a fifty year old, time-hardened and compacted grave in the dead of winter, this was child's play. Not that children should be digging up bodies. Not normal children anyway. He'd had to help his dad a couple of times when he was a kid, but that had been the exception rather than the rule. His dad hadn't taken him hunting until he was older. The grave digging had been relatively safe and he'd only done it because his dad had been too hurt to manage it himself.

Dean felt the muscles in his chest and back loosening as he began to shovel in earnest. Marigold was sitting on the lip of the grave opposite the edge he was shoveling dirt onto in case Jacob decided to show again. He concentrated, however, on the digging. It felt good. It was plain and simple, refreshingly simple. Grunt work, really.

No matter what else might be going on, a grave was a grave. It was dirt, stone, a coffin waiting for him at the bottom. It didn't require thinking. It was just a man and a shovel, physical exertion in its simplest form. He didn't have to worry about making decisions that would affect his future, or Sam's. He didn't have to worry about what the Demon wanted. He didn't have to think about his dad's orders, about killing Sam. He didn't have to think about where his Dad was right now, all because of him.

Which was all a lie of course. Digging was so simple, it meant that he had nothing to do _but_ think about all of that. Grave digging was only a soothing occupation when he was able to get his brain to shut up, and if there was ever a time he wished he could get his brain to shut up it was now. Unfortunately, the second their dad had given the order to take Sam out if it became necessary Dean hadn't had a moment of peace since.

Tired. He was so _tired_.

Suddenly the shovel felt ten times heavier than it had and Dean grunted as he tried to raise it to throw the dirt out of the grave. He gave himself a mental shake and ordered himself to focus on the task at hand. Salt and burn Jacob so he wouldn't kill Sam. _That_ was Dean's job. Kill everything in their path so that, no matter what it was, it wouldn't kill Sam.

Nothing was going to get the chance to kill Sam. Nothing. Not even him. Dean hadn't been lying when he said he'd rather die than kill Sam.

_You're borderline suicidal_.

Dean wasn't suicidal. Not really. He might be if he took the time to think about it, but he didn't. Sam. Save Sam. Dean didn't have time to be anything but on guard duty, including from himself. Sam was the one in trouble right now. He was the one with the target on his back. Sammy was the one who was _marked_.

Dean focused on the shovel as it bit into the ground beneath him. He concentrated, shutting out everything but the rhythmic sounds of his breathing, matching it to his shoveling. As he continued, he realized there was another sound, also working in time with what he was doing.

Footsteps.

Dean turned to see Jacob was pacing, walking in a circle around the salt line. "Thanks for the heads-up, Bud," Dean said angrily.

Bud wasn't paying him any attention whatsoever. He was staring in horror at Jacob as he circled them, a shark swimming around its prey.

"_Marked. Devil's spawn."_ He pointed at Bud. "_Your mark will choke the life from you." _

In the darkness, Bud's tattoos appeared to nearly writhe against his skin, as always, threatening to grow up and over, covering the last bits of unaffected flesh.

He was marked, his future inescapable… Eventually it would cover everything and the man beneath would be lost, eaten away…

"_Both of you."_ Jacob's accusatory finger shifted to Sam. "_Tainted. The devil's own workmanship_."

"Watch who you're calling tainted there, Mr. Walking-Dead." Dean picked up Marigold and aimed it toward Jacob.

The ghost paid him absolutely no mind. He just kept pacing around the circle as if looking for a weakness so that he could get to his victims.

If Dean had to guess, he'd say that Jacob had gone after anyone who'd come to the cemetery that he recognized as "marked." Dean imagined the victims would have been coming to the grave to visit whatever person their tattoo had been memorializing. Jacob had gone after them and the people had simply passed out and died on the grave they'd come to visit.

As for the one victim who'd been outside the Jewish cemetery, Dean now understood that too. He'd taken a look at the small temporary marker on the grave before he'd started digging. Jacob Aaronson. If the guy was Jewish it would explain why he hadn't allowed that victim to remain in that part of the cemetery. Tattoos were a big no-no and he wouldn't have wanted a "marked" person left in the graveyard, even dead, so he'd dragged him and dumped him with the rest of the gentiles.

Dean supposed it made some sort of sense. It wasn't like Christians had a lock on being ghosts… or being nuts for that matter. Dead people with issues were dead people with issues, no matter what their beliefs might have been. Schizophrenia was no respecter of persons either when it came to religion. Brain chemistry problems didn't really care where you went to pray. Frankly, Dean didn't either. A ghost was a ghost and nuts was nuts. At the end of the day, everybody just needed to be put to rest.

That was all anybody really wanted.

"Hey! Jacob!" Dean called again, seeing if he could get the ghost's attention, but Jacob still ignored him, his sights firmly on Sam and Bud.

Warily, still facing the other group, Dean returned to digging with renewed effort. He only had enough salt left for the body once he got to it and, without climbing out of the grave, he only had the salt shells that were already in Marigold. He'd rather save them for later if Jacob wasn't really doing anything yet, so Dean just kept digging. He was better than halfway to the casket.

As he watched, Jacob altered his course slightly. He moved toward Dean and the grave. Dean snatched up Marigold and aimed her steadily, but Jacob just moved past him. He circled around the back of the grave and then walked back toward Sam. He circled around Sam, and Dean realized that Jacob had changed his path to make a figure eight around the grave and Sam's protective circle.

Sam groaned. Dean looked past Jacob's flickering form to see his brother try to turn on his side.

"Sam, stay inside the circle," Dean shouted.

"Dean? What's going on?" Sam asked uncertainly.

"Jacob put the whammy on you. He tried for the exposure thing, but the salt's doing its job, so don't move."

"You ok?" Sam very carefully worked his way to his knees, swaying slightly and Dean knew it was his head giving him grief. He really should have left him at the motel.

"I'm fine, Sam. How's your vision?"

"What?"

"You seeing double?"

Sam paused briefly, then answered, "Not anymore."

"Good. Catch." Dean waited until Jacob was behind him and then threw Marigold to Sam who caught her easily. "Shoot Jacob if he tries anything. I'm almost to the coffin."

"_Why are you protecting him from me_?" Jacob suddenly rasped, although he continued his circuit around the grave.

"Because he's my brother," Dean answered, already throwing another shovelful of dirt outside the grave.

"_He's marked. He belongs to the devil. His mark covers his skin, his soul. I can see it_."

"Yeah, well, mark or not, Sam's not gonna agree to anything that bastard has in mind, so it doesn't matter. Just because the devil's after you, doesn't mean you have to let him win."

"_Once you're marked, it's too late_."

"It's never too late," Dean grunted. "Never."

"_He's MARKED_," the ghost shouted angrily, as if to bully him into agreement.

"He's not _marked_," Dean roared, so furious he could barely see straight. "He's MINE."

"_Yours_." Jacob turned every bit of his attention on Dean.

"_Mine_," Dean said with finality. He was tired of every freakin' thing on the planet trying to rip Sam away from him. Viruses, Gordon, Meg, the Demon, the djinn. _Dad_.

Sam _was_ marked. Sam was _his_ brother. Sam was _his_ responsibility. Sam was a freakin' Winchester and the supernatural bastards of this world and the next better never forget it.

"Dean, are you insane?" Sam demanded. "He's gonna think-"

"_You're him_." Madness burned in Jacob's dead eyes.

Yeah, ok, not what Dean had been going for, but… whatever.

So Jacob thought he was the devil. Maybe Dean was. He'd sent his father to Hell, after all.

Everything around him died, just as much as around Sam. Evil surrounded him on all sides, pressing in. Everything he touched turned to crap. Everyone that had any sense ran from him, or left him behind. Even Sam ran for it when he had the chance. Dean had told him the truth about what their dad had said and the very first thing Sam had done was run. From _him_.

Dean was supposed to kill his own brother. If that wasn't the devil's work he didn't know what was. Dean killed and killed. He brought death. He _was_ dead. Dead inside. He just so happened to still be walking around.

Dean kept shoveling, focusing on the job. He was almost there. Sam had Marigold. He was watching Jacob.

Dean finally felt the shovel hit something besides dirt and began clearing the last of the earth away. The ground felt squishy now beneath his feet as he worked and he realized it was the casket. If you died on the government ticket, they didn't spring for wood or metal. You got a nice crepe coffin, cheap, degradable. You were basically the world's biggest papier-mâché project.

The coffin, such as it was, had melded into a mass, and Dean had to concentrate to break through it with the shovel. It was a month-old body he was looking for as well, which just made this job even less inviting. He put his back into it as he brought the shovel down again and again, until finally the stench of a freshly decaying corpse hit him with enough force to knock him back. Dean ordered himself to ignore it, fighting the urge to gag as he brought the shovel down again, punching his way through the heavy paper coffin.

Had to get the casket open enough to salt the body. Had to salt the body. Burn it.

_Tired_. He was _so_ _tired_.

Save Sam. Sam was in trouble. Sam was marked.

Dean heard the report of the shotgun from behind him. His hearing went out and he assumed Jacob had been making some sort of move and Sam had been forced to fire. Dean just kept going.

Just had to finish the job. He could rest when Sam was safe. He could relax when the job was done. Not now.

Wasn't over yet. Not done yet. Almost.

Dean distantly felt hands. Arms reached around him, locked around his chest and hauled him out of the grave. He'd worked up a sweat, he'd been digging so feverishly and he felt cold as the night air brushed against his skin. He realized he was lying flat on the ground beside the grave, vaguely registered the heat as flames rose from the pit next to him.

Voices. No. A voice. Sam.

Too tired to answer. Throat hurt anyway. Thirsty. Too tired to go get a drink.

Sleep. Rest. That was all he needed.

Sleep.

* * *

_And we'll wrap this up tomorrow…_


	6. Chapter 6

**Hold Off the Earth Awhile**

Summary: Post WIAWSNB. Sam and Dean tangle with an artist whose work is a deadly gift that keeps on giving.

_Here's the wrap-up. __Hope y'all enjoyed this and thanks for all the reviews. Maybe I'll see you guys after the premiere._

Chapter Six

* * *

Sam sat back, trying to ease the pain in his ribs. He'd taken a handful of pills to keep his aches at bay, but ribs just had a way of letting him know they weren't happy, no matter how many aspirin he took. Sam shifted again in an attempt to get comfortable, his feet propped up on the bed where his brother was sleeping.

After Dean had been reckless enough to mouth off to Jacob, it had taken a moment or two before Sam realized what was happening. Jacob had simply stood there watching Dean while he dug the grave, seemingly content to let him work. Then Sam had noticed Dean was slowing down. He noticed just how hard his brother was working to keep going. His head had barely been visible above ground level, but between one shovelful and the next, Dean had turned pale, sick looking.

Sam had quickly shot Jacob, who'd dissolved, but it hadn't stopped what the ghost had already set in motion. Sam had abandoned his protective line of salt, hauled Dean out of the grave and hurriedly set the corpse on fire. He'd dragged Dean to the car and brought him back to the motel, bundling him up. He'd been watching over him since to make sure there were no lasting effects.

It hadn't been very long, but Sam was already tired of watching his brother sleep. He'd been doing way too much of it lately. This time, however, there was one difference. Dean was dreaming. And whatever it was, Sam doubted it was pleasant. There was nothing overt, nothing to give it away. Dean was too good for that, but Sam could still tell. Just like he could tell the instant his brother was no longer asleep.

Dean remained motionless for several more seconds, getting his bearings, then finally stretched and opened his eyes. "We get him?"

"Yeah. You feeling ok?"

"Nose is cold. You got the AC cranked up to 11?"

Sam snorted. "Feel free to smother yourself with your pillow. That should warm it up." His brow furrowed in mock-concern. "I can help if you need me to."

Dean just grunted and then scooted back so he could lean against the headboard. "Where's Bud?"

"I left him to fill in the grave."

A nasty grin spread across Dean's face. "You didn't."

Sam knew his own expression was smug. "I did. He likes grave dirt so much, he can play in it a little more."

"Kinda evil there, Sammy. Maybe Jacob was right." Dean was teasing, but Sam could hear the underlying tension. No matter how hard they tried to deny it, they both felt the weight of it, the _fear_. Sam was a marked man and that just never turned out well.

"I'm not the one who told a paranoid schizophrenic I was the _devil_." Sam glared.

"That was not my fault," Dean said defensively. "He was a nutball. He took it totally out of context!"

"Out of _context_?" Sam gaped. "Dude, this isn't English class. He was a crazy guy with a demon fixation and you waved a red flag in front of him."

"Worked, didn't it?" Dean looked down, fumbling with the covers.

They were both ignoring the overly-emotional declaration Dean had made as only Winchesters could. Sam had barely been able to breathe as he watched his brother, covered in dirt, digging like a madman, suddenly stop what he was doing and challenge Jacob, furiously placing his own mark on Sam. Dean's unswerving _faith_ in him… Sam didn't know if his brother understood how much Sam relied on it to keep him sane.

Dean cocked his head to one side so that he could look at Sam out of the corner of his eye. "_I_ thought it was awesome."

Sam just rolled his eyes, although he couldn't stop his mouth from quirking up at one edge. "Yeah. So," Sam cleared his throat, "you wanna tell me about your dream?"

Dean's body froze and his gaze locked with Sam's.

"Not _the_ dream," he added. He doubted Dean could bear to tell him everything about _the_ dream. "I mean just now. You didn't look so good. So tell me."

"I don't think so."

"Try," Sam said in a tone that would brook no opposition. Sam was tired of seeing the exhausted, haunted look in his brother's eyes. He was tired of the depression, the sleeping, the staring into space. Avoiding the issue wasn't working, so it was going to have to be the direct approach. Even Dean had to know this was coming. If Sam had to guess, all of the sleeping was partially to avoid having to talk.

Dean looked down and stared at Sam's feet, propped on the side of the bed Dean was currently occupying. He looked at the other side of the room to Sam's bed which obviously hadn't been slept in. He glanced around the room, anywhere but at Sam, until finally his eyes came back to rest on Sam's feet, crossed at the ankle.

"_Dean_."

"It's nothing," he said, talking to Sam's feet.

"Funny. Doesn't look like nothing. Looks a lot like you're two seconds away from a stroke."

Dean snorted, but he still didn't look up.

"You don't wanna tell me what you were just dreaming about, then fine," Sam said in exasperation. "Just tell me something, man. Anything. I'm tired of listening to myself talk."

"Where's a tape recorder when you need it?" Dean muttered. If Sam didn't know any better, he'd say his brother was close to _blushing_ at the attention. Which he was pretty sure Dean had lost the ability to do at age eight.

"It's just… I've been thinkin'…" Dean scratched at the back of his head distractedly. "Mom said…"

Sam felt the air freeze in his lungs at the words. He hadn't expected that exactly. He wasn't sure what he'd expected. The djinn… or… Dad… or the demon. Something.

"When the djinn had me, Mom was trying to convince me to stay. She said I was safe there." Dean finally looked up at Sam, and the _loss_ in his eyes was staggering. "That it would be a better life. 'Better than anything you had,' she said. And I knew… I mean I already knew it wasn't her, but when she said that… I _knew_."

"Knew what?" Sam asked quietly.

"I knew it wasn't her."

"But you knew that already."

"Knowing it and believing it when she's…" Dean sighed, rubbing fingers at his tired eyes, "when she's right in front of you, and she…"

"She," Sam prodded.

Unconsciously, Dean held a hand to his chin and let his fingers rub over his cheek, lost in thought, and Sam wondered what memory he was reliving.

"The thing is," Dean said, trying for casual, "I don't really remember her that well."

"Dean, you were _four_."

"I know." He shrugged, still pretending it didn't matter to him one way or the other. "I really just remember things were different after she was gone. No one who was worth all of _this_," he took the hand away from his face and gestured vaguely to the room around them and everything in their life it implied, "would tell me a dream that would leave you alone and eventually kill me was _better_." His face seemed to crumble. "But for a little while it felt better."

"Dean, a little vacation never hurt anybody," Sam said, trying for lightness, although the lie nearly choked him. Dean's vacation had nearly _broken_ him. "Especially with… everything that's been going on."

"Mom wouldn't have asked me to stay. She'd have sent me away if it meant protecting us. That much I know."

Sam simply nodded, not sure what he could add to that.

Dean looked at him, something newly insistent in his gaze. "That's what all of this is about, Sam. All of it. Dad did all of this to protect us too. Some guys woulda bought an island and tried to hide there for the rest of their lives, but Dad went with the give-the-kid-a-shotgun route."

"Good old Dad," Sam said without any of his normal rancor.

"I gotta do the same. I couldn't stay there in the dream. Dad said I gotta save you and that's what I'm gonna do."

Sam's heart began pounding in his chest the same way it did every time he thought of his father's final orders. A crazy ghost who didn't know him from Adam had recognized that there was something seriously wrong with him. With every case they took, what little hope Sam had been cobbling together was dying, little by little, as it became more and more evident that he wasn't destined to be the good guy in the story.

"Except that wasn't everything Dad told you, Dean, and you know it."

"It's not gonna come to that."

"It might." Sam was deathly afraid that it would, that neither of them would have any choice in the matter.

"It's _not_," Dean said firmly. "It _can't_."

"Listen-"

"Sam, if you died… I… I honestly don't know what I'd do. I…" Dean shook his head, as if frustrated even by the thought. "But if _I_ was the one who… Sam, there's just no way. If there was even a _chance_, no matter how small-"

"Dean, Jacob _saw_ it. He _saw_. He said it was all over me. Dean, if it's _part_ of me, then…"

"No," Dean answered firmly. "I _know_ you, man. I've been with you from day one. In the beginning, there was Sam and Dean. Whatever Yellow Eyes thinks… whatever he plans… well, he can just keep on thinking and planning because it's not. gonna. happen. Got that? If there is _anything_ good in this life, it's you. You're all that keeps me-" Dean stopped abruptly, embarrassed yet again.

Sam smiled, oddly reassured by his brother's ever-present discomfort with expressing his emotions. It was nice to know that some things never changed. "Yeah, man. I get it. I get it." Same here, he added mentally.

Dean sighed heavily. "Good. Cause I'm starting to feel like I'm at a slumber party. I sit here any longer spilling my guts, I'm gonna ask if I can braid your hair."

"The day I let you touch my hair is the day you let me clean Mari-," Sam coughed to cover his slip, "your shotgun."

Dean bristled, sitting up straighter. "Over my dead body."

"Exactly."

"Right." Dean pursed his lips. "So are we through with the soul-baring? I'm starving."

"What?" Sam knew he wasn't sounding particularly intelligent, but he was too surprised. Dean hadn't been hungry in days. He'd barely been a step above _comatose_ for days.

"Food," Dean said, looking at him like he was an idiot. "I'm hungry."

"Sure," Sam said, dropping his feet to the floor and reaching for his shoes, mindful of his ribs. He'd been hoping for some sleep, but Dean showing signs of life called for celebration. He could hold off a little longer if it meant his brother was on the mend.

Dean threw back the covers, still fully dressed, and shifted to the edge of the bed, facing away from him. Sam was pulling on his second shoe when he realized Dean wasn't moving. Sam deliberately held still and waited. And waited. The cloud. It was still there, surrounding his brother. _This weight on my shoulders, man. I'm tired of it._

"Dean?" Sam said cautiously.

"Yeah." Dean suddenly started moving again to reach for his boots where Sam had tossed them.

Sam wanted to swear. The cloud wasn't gone. Dean was just getting better at hiding it. "You know you never told me what you were dreaming about."

"No, I didn't."

"You gonna?"

"Just the usual, Sammy." Dean rose from the bed and walked toward the low dresser where Sam had thrown his jacket and the keys. "You ready?"

The usual. Sam could only imagine. And from the look on his brother's face he would have to. Dean wasn't in sharing mode any more.

Sam grabbed his jacket and shrugged it on as Dean opened the door.

"So, I was thinking…"

"'bout what?" Sam asked.

"Tattoos…"

"We talking nasty, evil, eat-your-face tattoos or more like… cupids?"

Dean snorted. "Those are both evil, Sam."

Sam rolled his eyes. "You gonna tell me or not?"

Dean walked out onto the sidewalk and turned back slightly to look at Sam. "You know the charms Bobby gave us?"

"Yeah?" Sam said, genuinely curious now. He pulled the motel room door closed behind him and headed toward the passenger side door.

"So, I just so happen to know this tattoo guy."

"Uh huh."

Dean grinned. "And he just so happens to know about certain special ingredients."

"That so?"

"Yup."

Sam gave Dean an answering grin. "Guess we better go pick him up from the cemetery then."

"Breakfast first?" Dean asked, his eyebrows raised.

"I'm sure he'll be fine 'til we get there," Sam answered with a nod.

Dean started the car and for the first time since the djinn, Sam could see the Impala's engine work its soothing magic on his brother. Bud could wait. It wasn't like he was going to die from exposure.

* * *

_Thanks very much for reading. Been a pleasure._


End file.
